Less Traveled By
by pippermint
Summary: Within the bounds of what was supposed to be, Roy knows they never could have made it this far. Royai, animeverse, post CoS. ONESHOT


**A/N:** Written for T/D's July-August challenge. Had to be a oneshot of at least 500 words, inspired by personal interpretation of this quote: "Straight ahead, one cannot go very far." English translation of a line from _The Little Prince_ by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. Concrit, plz? I haven't written Royai in over a year. :s

Title from a line in Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken".

-x-

He doesn't remember when she found him laid out in front of the white-hot remains of Bradley's burning mansion, but sometimes he dreams about it. In his mind, as in life, she's always the perfect soldier; her footsteps are like far-off, smart drumbeats on the front path. He imagines the creaks of Archer's machinery as what's left of the man's humanity crumbles under her assault. She's always calm.

Told him she screamed when she saw him lying there, but he can't imagine it. He wonders, sometimes, what she said to him; he'll never ask. There are some things that need to never be relived, and Roy knows this better than most. It's for her benefit and her benefit alone that they don't talk about what happened that night–or the tumultuous, painful, strange days that followed.

But Roy does remember peeled apples on plates atop the bedside table. Hair set free and spilling down over a crisp buttoned-up white shirt. A smile less guarded than any he's ever seen. Out of bounds in ways he can't put a finger on. Precious.

-x-

From the beginning, they were never what they were supposed to be to each other. His ambition and her unwavering devotion made sure of that. He knew that he took more than he gave, but also that she was beyond refusing to give. They accepted the anomaly as they had come to accept one another, and the rumors that stirred among the enlisted men from time to time were just that–rumors, unworthy of concern. Worrying about what other people thought wasn't what had gotten them this far. Couldn't look around and miss a step when the path was so winding.

He'd had plenty of time to think about them up there, with nothing but the whisper of constant snowflakes to keep him company.

After he came back south and the Elric brothers had disappeared and things got back to being as normal as they ever were, the path sort of dissolved in front of him. He didn't know what he had expected to happen next.

Surely not this.

Suddenly, glimpses of her become more common than conversations. He hears more about her from other people than he hears from Riza herself. Catching hold of her is harder than snatching smoke out of the air. And when they do talk, it leaves him with only a more certain feeling that something is terribly wrong. Words clipped and terse but calculatedly polite. Tight little smiles that don't reach beyond her lips, and have her eyes always been so far-off and melancholy?

"Riza?" he says, standing in the doorway of her office one morning. She looks up from a thick stack of beige papers, the expression on her face half a shade shy of neutral and nowhere close to joy. She is still. The like-new shine of her uniform buttons glints as it catches the light.

"…Nothing." He waves vaguely before he continues down the hall, a feeling of unease creeping down his spine like too-cool water. Behind him, there is a long, meaningful pause before the scratch of pen on paper picks up again. But what could he have said?

-x-

He invites her to have lunch in his office–for what purpose, he does not know. Maybe seeing her for more than five minutes is enough reason. The room is still not completely furnished, and the only chair is the high-backed leather one that he uses to do some pretense of work. So, at his suggestion, she's sitting on the edge of his desk, facing him. Her legs hang off the edge, her feet crossed and dangling above the floor. She is poised and girlish at the same time.

"What is it?" Her eyebrows are raised in the middle as she notices him looking, but the sad look has not left her.

"Nothing," he says, just like that morning. But seeing the effect the word has on her, he adds, "It's just good to have things back to…" Normal would be cliché and a lie. Things have never been normal. And as much as he thought so before, things are not the way they were.

"It's good to be back," he says finally.

She nods once and returns to the bowl of soup on her lap, the soup she wouldn't let him pay for no matter how many times he had insisted.

"Roy, why am I here?" She asks out of the blue, voice full of a suppressed exasperation that takes him aback. And he knows the answer he wants to give, but "I missed you" is not an option, not a path either of them would want to navigate…though he's come close on a few different occasions.

"They're going to ask me how I want to furnish the office tomorrow. I thought you could help."

He imagines that the hand holding her spoon tightens for a minute, but there is definitely a long wait before she speaks. "Dark wood, I suppose. Mahogany, if they'll let you have it. Sheer curtains, otherwise you won't get much light after noon. And some nice chairs."

"I'll try to remember the chairs," he jokes dryly, but she doesn't even quirk her lips in return. He sighs. Her hair is cut much shorter than he remembers, but it's still pulled back in a clip, leaving only bangs and stray tendrils to frame her solemn face.

"Riza, what's bothering you?" To his credit, he resists the urge to reach out and touch her, though every inch of distance of space between them feels like an enemy.

The clink of her spoon is audible in the naked space. A minute goes by before she pushes herself from his desk with slow, deliberate movements, takes her things, and moves for the closed door, knowing that he won't stop her.

"It's good to have you back, Roy," she says, but there is no feeling behind her words. The door closes behind her and he lets his gaze wander around the room, as aimless as he feels.

On a bright blue day like this one, the southern-most window in his office offers a view of the distant military graveyard, the smooth stones standing at attention as if taking over for the soldiers buried beneath. Despite his best efforts, Roy can't tell which of the graves belongs to his best friend. He wishes Maes were there to explain what he needs to do.

-x-

Instead, he finds Jean Havoc the next morning and pulls him to the side of a wide hall with a meaningful look. As Roy waits until they're beyond earshot, Havoc studies him with a bit of concern, catching on to the fact that this is something out of the ordinary.

Roy pinches the bridge of his nose before he starts. "I'm about to ask you something that I don't want to, that I shouldn't have to, but under the circumstances I don't have much other option. And I trust you to repeat it to no one."

Havoc nods slowly, his face a picture of morbid curiosity.

"What's going on with Hawkeye?" He should have, in retrospect, asked if there _might_ be something going on with Riza, but at this point he can't bring himself to pretend there's a chance of everything being alright. He knows better.

"What do you mean?"

Roy doesn't think he's playing dumb, but feels a pinprick of annoyance nonetheless. "What's wrong with Riza, Jean?" He repeats.

The younger man scratches the back of his head and coughs. "Well, I kind of think–you can't take any of this as fact, because it's my opinion and nothing else, but…" He sighs. "When you left–" He indicates a direction that is probably supposed to be north. "–she wasn't the same. None of us were, really, but she took it the hardest, even if she never showed it much. The fact that I noticed it all bothered me because…well, you know Hawkeye.

"And I tried to say something–anything, really–but it never seemed like my place to do it. And when you came back, I thought she'd be fine, or at least better."

The words "she isn't" hang heavy in the air, and Roy turns away with a murmur of thanks. Behind him, he hears Havoc fumble in his pocket, probably for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Roy can't blame him.

-x-

He doesn't realize his feet have brought him to her office until he takes the final flight of stairs and her door's in front of him like a portal to another world. He hesitates, but turning back now is simply not an option.

Without knocking, he enters, and the brief fear that she'll be angry fades when he sees how sad she looks. Her head snaps up and her façade assembles itself when she hears the door, but it's too late.

"Riza…"

She pales a little, and Roy swears he can feel her heartbeat from where he stands on the other side of her desk. Or maybe that's just his own, echoing around the room even though her office has been fully furnished for months now.

The words chase each other around in his head, but he's never felt so sure.

"I missed you when I was up there. I know you think I didn't."

Her face doesn't soften, but something behind her eyes crystallizes and breaks. They don't talk like this much.

"I needed that time up there, but I also need to be here."

She gets up and comes around the desk, stops further away from him than he would have liked. Takes a deep breath.

"I was happy when you came back, but I wasn't happy for myself. I had a lot of time to think about things, you understand, and what came out of that was me realizing that I don't have much of a purpose for you anymore. You're in no more danger than anyone in Central now–probably less, considering how many people think of you as a hero." Her voice does not crack, as he thought it might, but ends with a wistful lilt.

"I…" He's known all along, but it hits him hard, then, that their path has always been, at least on the surface, about keeping him safe. No frills of emotion and nothing more. Underneath, maybe there was, but both of them were content to keep it there, out of sight and mind.

"Riza…" And now she feels as though she's outlived her purpose for him; he understands everything. Why she's been avoiding him for weeks. Why she won't meet his eye even now.

Words won't come even though his mind is racing and there seems to be a sort of magnetism between them. They're been practical all along, but there's more–oh, _so_ much more–and if he doesn't look beneath the surface now, they'll be lost.

A step closer, and he's glad that the door's closed.

Another, and he can see her eyes shining behind thick lashes.

And he kisses her. Slow and hesitant at first, as if she'll scatter like ashes, then more insistent. The sensation is strange; he imagines that to touch what he's looked upon for so long is a bit like color to a man relieved of blindness. Probably better. The pin-drop silence of the room shelters them as her lips part for his own. They taste like warmth and honey and sunny days–everything he's been missing all these years. The hair on the nape of her neck is soft, and he knows that if he opens his eye, he'll see it glowing gold in the afternoon light. But he doesn't. Not yet. Because she's wrapped her arms around him. Because every curve of her body is pressed flush against him and damned if this doesn't blot out half the darkness he wishes he'd never seen and done.

When they do pull apart–if they ever pull apart–no words will be necessary. Things are different, beautifully different, but the explanation is exactly the same. Once again, he should never have let her in, and she should have known better than to come. They are on a path of their own design, of their own wants and needs. They are what was never meant to be.

-x-


End file.
